


Bel-stuff-me-up (Belshaft)

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Don't tell MG about this [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom coat, Coatlock, Jealousy, Love, May one of them rest in peace, Mentioned two other characters who wore the coat, Mutual sartorial infidelity, Other, Smut, Sounds so dirty, The red buttonhole, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock falls in love with his coat and has sex with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thedustlandfairytale provided the prompt and suggestions. Thank you.

Sherlock wanted to hate it, the coat. It was a gift from Mycroft, a bribe to stay away from drugs and a subtle attempt at forcing him to become a respectable member of the society. Sherlock received it after one of his overdose adventures, instead of a more traditional and typically ineffective threat of a rehab. Mycroft deliberately chose the beautiful Belstaff 'Milford' coat, as it didn't suit a drug ~~addict~~ user, didn't mix well with unwashed, loose, cheap clothing of a junkie who shamed the family name.

At first, the coat only reminded Sherlock of how overprotective and manipulative his brother was. Soon, however, Sherlock realised how fond he became of this precious possession. He didn't want to think how well Mycroft knew him to have chosen that particular colour. The beautiful charcoal with a lovely shade of indigo blue. Sherlock had seen this very mixture whenever he wanted to escape the world and closed his eyes. The material, pure Irish wool tweed, seductively rough to the touch in the most pleasant way. It awakened something inside him, something deeply hidden. With each passing day, Sherlock became more and more emotionally attached to it, to his amazement and slight alarm. The summer was right around the corner and he lied to himself, thinking he would stop wearing the coat for those three days of the British heatwave. He didn't, it was very breathable.

Mycroft's evil plan to influence his life choices failed. Sherlock didn't give up one of the rare joys of his otherwise depressing life. Whenever he relapsed, he would simply leave the coat in his flat, safe and sound. But every time he was about to heighten his thought process, he put on his ancient, badly torn anorak and it felt like cheating. Cheating on the Belstaff. Sartorial infidelity. The coat seemed sad and disappointed and hurt. That was what convinced Sherlock to limit, then stop his experiments with illegal substances.

Purely platonic fascination and affection didn't last long. What inspired a more intimate relation was a recurring dream. A wet, wet dream about incredibly satisfying sex with the coat. The sleeves... they did unspeakable, erotic things to him and he loved it. The right sleeve took his virginity, maddeningly slowly and gently, considering its rough texture. The left one enveloped his erection and stroked him just as harshly as expected. Sherlock would wake hot, sweaty and hard. Also, confused and intrigued. He never considered himself sexually repressed, just uninterested, yet not asexual. The urges were there, but he ignored them. A no-strings-attached situation would be best for him, yet the other person sooner or later wanted something more. Cuddling, talking, having dinner. No, sex with humans was too problematic. The coat, though...

One night Sherlock took his Belstaff to bed, just to see what could happen. He was nude, felt exposed. The touch of tweed against the soft, sensitive skin was intoxicating, pain and pleasure blended together as Sherlock rubbed the material against his body. His breathing became erratic and his length hardened. The knowledge of what he was doing made the experience even better, like using luxurious hand cream as a lubricant.

He needed more. The memory of the scorchingly hot dream returned and he had, _had_ to do it. He slid his member into the right sleeve, gripped it with his hand, hard. One moment to adjust and then he made a couple of careful thrusts, testing his and coat's limits. He wouldn't hurt either of them. The rhythm he developed was languid, there was no reason to end it sooner than necessary. Feeling bold, he reached to the red buttonhole and caressed it with his fingers. Oh, yes, it was the equivalent of red lacy knickers. He pushed the tip of his index finger through the hole, then added a second finger. That was a tight fit. He couldn't last any longer. His sensual groaning was muffled by the wool and he filled the sleeve up with his ejaculate. In the afterglow of his orgasm, he crawled under the coat and pressed it to his shivering body with unsteady hands. 

With time, he became more courageous. His sexual inhibitions disappeared when he was all alone with the coat, just the two of them and the tension that could be released only in one way. He would lick the buttons, take them into his mouth and suck. He would violate the pockets in every way imaginable, hard and fast. He would lie on top of the coat and ride it, biting on the collar not to scream in pleasure. 

The only problem was the suspicious amount of bodily fluids left on the coat. Fortunately, there were discreet people who knew how to clean his beloved coat without damaging it. 

Obviously, Sherlock felt possessive about his Belstaff. It was with very mixed feelings that he shared the coat with others. The threesome with unaware Irene Adler was so intense. Sherlock only saved her life because she could have stolen his coat but she didn't. Then there was Jim Moriarty. He borrowed the coat without Sherlock's permission when he was to have a meeting with Mycroft that never really took place. Sherlock was livid and embarrassingly jealous. He forgave the coat and took it back. Moriarty escaped his wrath by committing a suicide. Good. Sherlock didn't want to share the coat anymore. 

They belonged together and nothing could tear them apart.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please, appreciate the subtlety of the title.
> 
> Also, I'm not responsible for the description of the coat's colour.


End file.
